


slow down (they don't love you like i love you)

by queenofthestarrrs



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Getting Back Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 08:22:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8616640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofthestarrrs/pseuds/queenofthestarrrs
Summary: In the grayness of ambiguity, Nyota carves out a space for herself.





	

“I got this, um. -” Nyota pauses. 

 

Spock’s quarters are immaculate, perhaps more orderly than she remembers it to be, she notices as the doors close behind her Her eyes glance over the sea of white and grey and the shinning chrome surfaces of his coffee table. She lingers on a single portrait that is sandwiched in between two books, one of Vulcan poetry and the other a history of the United States of Africa. Both of them are gifts that she had given him a few years ago It was back when they lived on the bustling campus of Starfleet Academy, nestled in between the cool ocean and the thick wall of fog. She’s rather surprised he had kept them through the years.The two of them looked mismatched against his ornate hardcovers. They were only cheap paperbacks she purchased from old bookstore down the street from her apartment. 

It’s a family portrait, the one she’s looking at. A young Spock, the same intelligent and piercing dark eyes peering at her from behind a thick fringe of black bangs. He looks, not necessarily unhappy, but apathetic. He lacks the spark that she had always seen in him when he had been surrounded by his fellow Starfleet officers or standing on the bridge of the Enterprise. The younger version of him looked almost bored. He looks as if this singular photo, a mere moment of his day, was too much to be asked of him. He looks like he’d rather do just about anything else than give a sullen look at whoever was standing just beyond the scope of her view. 

 

Sarek stares unwaveringly at her through the photo. The pale gray of his robes suit him. They bring out the coolness of his hair and the sharpness of his face. It does not make him look sour. In fact, his glance is soft, and his hand was resting on his son’s shoulder. From all she knows of Vulcan emotion and nonverbal signals, she can tell that he’s proud. He had an intense admiration for those who shared the picture with him. In his own, she supposes, he had always loved his family. 

It is Amanda, though, who truly catches her eye. In a photo filled with shades of gray, she stand out brightly. Her deeply colored hair is immaculately curled, deeply shiny, and draped elegantly over her left shoulder. It’s tied back by a light pink piece of silk. Her cheekbones are accented by a generous flush and the smattering of light from the heavy crystals in her ear. Her hand is on Spock’s other shoulder. Her nails are painted a muted red that suits her skintone, and her finger is adorned by a simple gold band. Her eyes are kind with the light of happiness in them. She is the only one who is smiling.

 

“You acquired what for whom, Lieutenant Uhura?” Spock does not move in the slightest from his standing position near his coffee table, but the tone of his voice suggests that he’d much rather her look at him that continue to scrutinize his belongings. 

She frowns crossly. Her nose wrinkles in the most curious fashion, and Spock wonders if this is a new habit she has picked up. It accents the group of freckles across her cheeks. “Nyota, please. You’ve always called me Nyota.”

 

He raises an eyebrow. The creases on his forehead are deeper than she remembers. She supposes that this all, the very nature of this five year mission, has taken its tole on him. It’s taken its tole on all of them. 

 

“I,” he rolls his shoulders forward. “I presumed with our current situation that you would prefer if I addressed you as I address all other members of Starfleet. You are, after all, a very talented and competent officer. You deserve to be treated as such.” 

Nyota smiles. It is a reserved and subdued smile, but it is a smile nonetheless. It reminds her of the days when their relationship was just blooming. When he would compliment her like that, telling others how bright she was and how her research on the syntax of Klingon mating ritual was completely groundbreaking in her field. Where they would share brief kisses in his office or the corridors of the research library. Where they would bake sickeningly sweet holiday cookies in her apartment long after the other students had left for the winter break. 

 

He respected her long before he ever loved her, and she still loves him for that. 

 

“Just because our-” she cannot find the words for it, Has she taken the time to appreciate it, she would have found that extremely ironic. A linguist is unable to find words. “romantic entanglement is over, it does not mean that we can’t be friends. You respect me, and I have a deep admiration for you. I am incredibly grateful for your, your companionship over the years. I think it would be a shame if we ceased to be friends. You are my friend, after all, Commander Spock.” 

 

She can tell that he is thinking. She knows his ticks, the way he works. When he thinks he glances up at the ceiling, and there is a vein on his left temple, it means that he is stuck deeply in the nature of his thoughts. He is unsure how to proceed. 

 

“I brought you this,” she tells him as he continues to be lost in a world of his own thought. She pushes a brown paper bag into his arms. The vein bulges out more as unwraps the bag to find a swath of brightly colored fabric. 

 

He drapes the fabric over his arm. It reaches all the way from his arm to just above his chrome floor.His long fingers, tinted slightly green at the joints, run over it as if he is feeling the threads underneath his hand. “I don’t understand.” 

“It’s called a kente cloth. It’s, uh, it’s something that’s very important to my culture. I bought it over shore leave, or, well, I sort of bought it over shore leave. I had my mother order it for me. I picked it up during shore leave. I figured since you had given me something from your culture, something that means so much to you, I should do the same.” She pauses uncomfortably. She feels like she is babbling. “Oh, and there should be a fairly large amount of coffee in the bag too. My mother remembered that it was your favorite blend, and she absolutely insisted that I take some with me to give to you.” 

Spock grins at her. “Ankake has always been a thoughtful woman.” 

 

Her mother adored Spock. She liked the way he talked, the way he would sit with her in the small garden that she grew outside of her modest home in Nairobi. Most importantly, she had always liked the way that he had treated her daughter. Mr. Spock may have been a reserved man, but he had always looked at Nyota as if she had hung the moon. 

“What does this mean?” Spock continues as he tucks the fabric underneath his arm. He does not bother to fold it, and there is some of it that drapes elegantly over his leg. 

Nyota shrugs. “Well, on Earth, Spock, when one person appreciates the continued friendship of another person it isn’t uncommon for that person to present the other person with some sort of material or monetary gift that they suspect that they would enjoy in order to show said appreciation.” 

“That, while appreciated, is not what I meant, Nyota.” His shoulders tighten. “The necklace you’re wearing, it’s made of vokaya.” 

“You mean the tracking device?” There is a light playfulness in her voice that has not been there in months. Spock almost appreciates it. 

 

Nyota touches the pendant she still wears. She’s not entirely sure why she continues to do so. She wasn’t even really planning on seeing him today. She expected fully to leave the gift at his door and go back to her preparing her station for take off. After that, she planned on having a long warm bath and catch herself up with all the latest research that she downloaded when she was on Earth. 

Yet, when she woke up this morning, she clasped it around her neck as she always did. Even before she washed her face or braided her hair or even dressed, she put the necklace on. She even relished the coolness against her sleep warmed bodied. 

“To use a parlance that he would be familiar with, Dr. McCoy is full of shit.” Spock raises his eyebrows sharply and forces his shoulders down. “On a more relevant not, on Vulcan, voykaya is a remembrance stone. It is given under the pretenses that whenever one should look at the stone, they should remember the message attached to it. That said message is usually one of deep respect or even love.” 

 

The vokaya is still cold underneath her touch as a blush creeps its way up Nyota’s neck and onto her face. She can feel it burning underneath his steady gaze.

“My father gave it to my mother in the pretense of love, and I suppose I did the same for you.” 

 

Nyota stares at the ground, face still burning. She wants to turn back to the portrait, to look into Amanda’s smiling eyes for some kind of comfort. “I would have liked to meet her. Spock.”

 

“She would have liked you. I am absolutely secure in that fact.” Spock looks mournful. She often forgets how close he was with his mother, how deep his devotion to her was. “So, I must ask, does this cloth have a specific meaning?” 

 

Nyota nods, twin braids that frame her face swinging along with her head. She holds out a palm, fully expecting Spock to give her an edge of the fabric. He does naturally. He seems to always not what she wants. It’s often before she does. 

The entire thing is floor length and provides a healthy distance between the two of them. 

 

It’s gorgeous. Even if Nyota believes that Spock cannot fully appreciate the aesthetic value of the cloth, she knows he can appreciate the craftsmanship in it. It’s tightly weaved, by hand, with stunning colors that seem to stand out against the sea of neutrals in his room. His hands continue trace the fabric. The darkness of his tight black sleeve contrasts brilliantly with it. 

“This,” Nyota grabs his wrist. It’s a bold mood, but he does not shy away from it. He is compliant as she leads his arm to a particularly brightly colored part of the fabric. “Is called kente cloth. It’s also sometimes called nwentom.”

“Nwentom,” he repeats, weighing the word in his mouth. “Did I say that correctly?”

“No,” she smiles, “but it’s alright. You’ll get it eventually. Anyway, it was originally made for kings, but it’s considered now a symbol of African pride. Each of the colors and patterns means something. They’re picked out to represent the celebration that someone is wearing it for or, alternatively, for the person wearing it.” 

“I am.... I am honored that you would acquire something with my personal disposition in mind.” Spock leads their hands to a vertical smattering of color.“What does this mean?” 

 

She grabs onto his hand a little firmer. “This pattern is called Emaa Da. It represents the knowledge that comes from experience. My mother must have thought that she was being cheeky, considering that you were my professor.” 

“I did not know your mother was aware that we function in the role of professor and student.”   
“In the long tradition of black mothers, my mother knows everything, Spock.” 

There is a silence. It is not awkward, but it was more uncomfortable than their silences have been before. 

“I picked out the color, though.” She covers his hand with hers. “I wanted them to be ones that were...That were accurate to you.” 

She traces the colors with his palm. “The black means maturation and spiritual energy. Blue means peacefulness and love. The silver means purity and joy. You, uh, you always made me feel happy, Spock. You still do. “ 

His gaze is intense on her. His mouth is a tight line. 

 

She wants him to curtly show her the door. She wants him to kiss her. She wants some kind of closure. She wants a sure sign that their relation is either or is continuing. She is immensely tired of the perpetual grayness of this.

Everything around her is gray. Gray like the tables and the chairs and the decorations on the wall. She had carefully existed in the space between pupil and lover. She had been careful to call him Commander Spock in the classroom and my sweet, my love, my everything out of it. She was careful on the bridge, not to treat him as anything more than a respected colleague. She has lost count of all the times when she had to hold her tongue when absentmindedly rushed towards death. 

Even now, they occupy a gray space. He walks onto the bridge and tells her that he admires what she has done with her hair. Yet he blatantly turns his back on her in the common spaces. 

But the grayness does not end. 

His grip on her hand gets tighter.

“I would like to brew this coffee later. I was wondering if you’d like to join me.” 

She glances again at that photo of Spock’s family. She thinks of the way that Amanda had made herself a home among the gray. Uhura has tried that. And as much as she tries, and she tries and she tries and she tries, it did not work.She is not Spock’s mother. She was not a woman who carefully put herself in the pattern of She is cannot tolerate the gray. 

“I would like to know, Mr. Spock, if you’d like to join me for an evening date late in my room. You’re welcome to bring the coffee with you if you’d like.” 

Spock smirks, the audacity of him to smirk! 

“Nyota, I believe...” His voice trails off. He too glances back at the photo of his family. “I would enjoy that very much.”


End file.
